


Thanks (Formerly called Blue)

by Emberglade



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Figure, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Not shipping - Freeform, PTSD, Peter is a good kid, i gave up my notes for this, i wrote this in one hour, it hasn't been proofread or edited, not fucking shipping, or at least stylistic, supportive son figure, the second chapter is a little less sad, tony just needs a nap tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 00:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emberglade/pseuds/Emberglade
Summary: The world Tony lives in can become viscous. It will weigh down on him like a hundred stones. Sometimes, he disappears. Somehow, Peter knows how to drag him back from the plane of the dead.Peter Parker is always guilty. He just wants to be okay again, but saying that out loud was just too scary to do.. Somehow, Tony gets him to talk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an hour  
> maybe one day I'll actually add to it  
> this isn't shipping i stg  
> Love yall, leave some comments for drabble ideas or wuv!!

Sometimes the world comes crashing down on Tony in waves. The world will melt through his bones and he will seep into whatever surface he finds himself splayed across as reality drips away into nothing more than expensive champagne and boxes of menthols. He becomes nothing more than viscosity, brain so occupied by absorbing the thoughts he is wrecked by that he doesn’t even realize that time is slowly pouring away.

His head becomes heavy, his neck becomes a thin branch unable to lift a leaf. He’ll lay there for hours, days even, unable to escape the coma that becomes him. Little spurs him into movement as he realizes that all he’s worked for is nothing more than a child’s fantasy come to life. He knows that he doesn’t deserve where he is or the praises he gets. 

Tony becomes a corpse in his own home. On these days, no one comes to speak to him. Happy stays far away, the Avengers busy themselves. All he’s left with is his robots. And they don’t initiate any sort of contact, understandably so.

Tony isolates himself. Locks down the headquarters and sits in his room. He stares at the wall. He cries. Sometimes, if he really has too, he’ll bang his head on the shower wall. It keeps his mind off of things. He’ll drink away the bad dreams and try to cool the burning shame in his chest. Tony Stark was a dumb man.

So here he was again, his face pressed into the soft, iron-pressed coldness of his pillow. He was in last-week's meeting clothes, so wrinkled and stained it was almost miraculous that one could still recognize them as anything moderately close to a suit. He smelled off, like alcohol and sweat. He was tangled in sheets and his clothing and emotions. He wanted to go back to sleep, but Tony Stark hadn’t slept in years.

He rolled over onto his back, closing his eyes. There was nothing here. He was nothing. The world would end at his hands one day and all he could do was wait for the time to come when he would bring the ultimate destruction to this planet. He knew that all he could bring to this planet now was crippling destruction and shame. Nothing could ever come from him but the sick, bad, and dirty.

He didn’t hear the swish of the doors opening. Didn’t feel the gaze of his apprentice on him. He barely registered the other soul in the room as the bed dipped next to his head and a hand found its way into his hair.

Tony opened his eyes a sliver, just enough to see Peter above him. The younger hero ran a hand through the greasy, tousled hair, running soothing circles in his scalp. His face was pressed into a frown, and Tony could barely manage a smile at him before his eyes slipped closed.

He woke up hours later to a warmth around him. It took him a good handful of minutes to process what was going on and who was around him. His head was resting on Peter’s stomach, his torso pressing against his legs. His arms found home around the teen’s midsection. Peter still had his hand in Tony’s hair.

Tony mumbled something, he wasn’t sure what himself. Peter’s hand smoothed through his hair one more time. Tony heard his first voice in days.

“Mr. Stark. You need to eat something.”

Tony groaned in response, his mind too slow to respond. He buried his face into his apprentices stomach.

“Mr. Stark, would you eat if I made you something? Something warm?” Peter’s voice was so soft, so tempting. Tony juggled the option in his mind for a bit.

Minutes passed, Tony wasn’t sure how long, but he eventually mustered his first words in what felt like years. “What is it?” he managed to croak.

Peter hummed, hands running through his hair again. Tony decided that he liked it. “How does some pasta sound, Mr. Stark?”

Tony nodded into his soft abdomen, but tightened his slightly loose grip on the boy. “Few more minutes,” he mumbled, muffled in the softness of Peter.

They lay like that for what could have been anywhere between ten minutes to two hours, but eventually Peter peeled his mentor off of him and covered him with the duvet, wandering off to make food. There was clinking and clattering and the sounds of inhabitants from the kitchen, and Tony felt himself slowly become more grounded with every sound and movement. He eventually managed to peel himself from his bed and shuffle down to the kitchen, where he took as seat at the breakfast bar. 

Peter was straining the pasta, and he smiled at Tony when he walked in. Tony felt a heavy, paternal tugging in his gut as this kis gave him a toothy grin. His eyes gleamed and he was like a sunset, burning and golden. Tony watched him stir something in a saucepan before dumping the pasta, rather ungracefully, inside. 

He stared off into space for a few moments, watching the world outside move without him, until he was jostled into reality by the bowl set in front of him. It was so simple, but he almost cried regardless.

Spaghetti noodles in sauce. It was so simple, he could have made it in his sleep, but something about Peter making it for him made him almost tear up.

Peter sat next to him, waiting. It took tony a moment to realize that he was waiting for him to take the first bite. With a shaky hand, Stark swirled his fork around and lifted a bite to his lips. It was bland, like one would expect, but coming from the kid it was perfect.

With another smile, Peter joined him. They ate in silence, neither feeling the obligation to fill the dead space with even deader talk. Tony appreciated the silence. 

He finished his bowl rather quickly, not realizing how hungry he actually was. When he was done, he sat there staring down at his hands, lost on what to do next. Peter stood and collected their dishes, putting them in the sink. “You should go shower.”

“Hmm?” Tony pulled himself out of his daze.

“You should go shower. It always helps me pull out of a… moment.” Peter leaned on the counter, watching his superior with a careful eye.

Tony swallowed, not wanting to pry into whatever Peter had almost opened up about. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll be back in a bit…” He stood on tired legs and dragged himself to the bathroom. Clothes fell with lethargic methodicalness, Tony’s hands too tired to put effort in. He turned on the water, waiting for it to reach the highest heat possible.

He merely stood under the water, feeling himself get weighed down. Time droned by as he considered Peter Parker. The son he never had, never could be. Peter was here, he was being a companion. He understood. Tony rubbed his hands on his face. This was so much.

He wanted to be there for Peter in ways his dad never was for him. How could he do that when he was like this? He rested his head on the tile in front of him.

A knock came to the door. “Mr. Stark? I’ve left some PJ’s out here for you. If you feel up to it, I’m gonna put on a movie. I’ll even make popcorn!” Tony smiled.

“Okay, kiddo.” He turned off the water, towelled off, and cracked to door to pull the clothes in. A cat t-shirt and some blue plaid pajama pants. Fitting. He dressed and looked at his reflection. He looked tired. He looked pathetic. Unable to support those around him, those that needed him. How could he save anyone when he couldn’t even save himself?

He looked away and rushed out of the bathroom, tossing himself onto the couch. Peter smiled at him and adjusted the bowl of popcorn so Tony could lean up against his side. “Hey. Glad you could make it.” Tony grunted.

The movie could barely contain his attention, but every so often Peter would tap the back of his hand or give him some popcorn, and in those moments Tony was brought back to reality. He sighed and went limp against the hero’s side, feeling like he could actually sleep for the first night in years. His eyes drooped, and Peter patted the back of his hand.

“I’m proud to call you my mentor, Mr. Stark.”

Tony smiled for the first time in months. “Thanks kiddo.” He rest his head on his shoulder. “It means a lot.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Peter Parker was sad. This wasn’t the first time, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. He was sad a lot. But it wasn’t the kind of sadness he could name. It was a creeping, ugly sadness. The kind where one would be fine for so long, only to snap, bending into an unrecognizable shape. When this sadness hit him, triggered by seemingly nothing, Peter would fold himself up and squeeze himself into the space behind the boces in his closet. He would sit there with his hands around his neck until his back ached and his knees popped from the slightest jostle.

At first, he cried a lot. After his Uncle, he didn’t stop crying. May wanted him to see a therapist. He wanted to see his family. But he lost that part of his family, and it was his own fault. Peter stopped crying at some point. He couldn’t remember when, but at some time the tears just stopped and she sadness became guilt.

And so when he was bitten, Peter poured everything he had into being Spiderman. He gave it his whole heart. This was all he had left. He had to save everyone he could.

Parker thought that the sadness would go away. He assumed that one day, he’d wake up and not need to squish himself behind a box. That one day he wouldn’t need to lay in bed all night, staring out his window at the dull glow of the streetlamps in Queens.

Those were the worst nights, the ones where he couldn’t sleep. The ones where all the things he thought in the closet came out, filling his room with such a heavy sickness that he could barely breathe. Nights like those, he would spend his hours counting his mistakes and questioning his decisions. He’d panic. He’d lose his composure. Ragged breathing would clog his lungs and he’d become nothing more than his mistakes.

Peter didn’t like living like that. He especially didn’t want anyone else to know that he lived like that. So he stopped hiding when May started getting worried. He smiled often, made one too many jokes. He would spend his weekends with Ned and he would try his best to pretend that everything was okay. And in those moments when he was pretending, everything was okay. But the second he found himself alone, okay disappeared, and instead he was nothing more than this all consuming, maddening sadness.

When Peter met Tony Stark, his hero, he almost didn't notice it. Hadn’t seen the same monster living within him. But it doesn’t take long for these things to become apparent to the trained eye. He knew Tony suffered from PTSD. He knew that he was plagued by the atrocities he felt he had caused, and he was well aware what PTSD did to a man. But he never would have guessed that Iron-Man could be depressed. He almost didn’t want it to be true. 

But there was no mistaking it. The bags under his eyes, the aptitude for isolation. The way his eyes would wander off into the distance, the way he didn’t like sleeping in the same room as other people if he could help it. The way sometimes Peter could see him cracking.

So Peter came to him. When Tony shut him out, he would come to him. Happy would let him into headquarters, and he would worm his way into Tony’s head, doing his best to pull him out of whatever darkness he had slipped into. He knew he wasn’t curing his mentor, but at the very least he was helping.

But who would be there to help him?

Peter rest his head on his knees, back already cramping from his position. His head ached and he wanted to go to sleep. But he just woke up, and there’s only so much sleep one can get in a day. 

His chest burned. His ears and face felt hot. Peter could feel the overwhelming waves of guilt hit him. His throat clenched with the effort of not crying, and his hands knotted themselves into his hoodie sleeves.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_ We need you for a little training, meet us at HQ. _

Peter stared at the message, trying to formulate a response that would be reasonable enough. “I’m sick” wouldn’t cut it. His powers had boosted his immune system so well that he was impenetrable by any sort of common human illness. “I got hurt” would cause Tony to investigate. “Homework” was bullshit because Tony was well aware that he did all of his homework during lunch and in class. There was nothing. So he told the truth.

_ Really not feeling up to it. I’ll make up for it this weekend. Sorry. _

Peter tossed his phone across the closet. He put his head back. “Worthless. You can’t even help out with a stupid training session because you’re brain hurts.”

His phone buzzed once. And then twice. And then a few more times. Peter ignored it. He tipped his head back, stretching his neck. It cracked. Sighing, he leaned on the wall behind him. He was going nowhere. He wasn’t helping anybody and no-one on the Avengers really wanted him. He was good at putting them in danger and making everyone's life harder. He couldn’t even save Ben.

Tears dripped down his chin. Ben was dead and it was his fault and everybody knew it. He sobbed into his hands, ears hot and shirt slowly wetting from the crying. 

His closet door all but slammed open. “Nope. Not happening. Get up.” Peter clenched his eyes shut, hiding his face in his hands.

“Mr. Stark… I already told you I can’t go.”

“I know. I’m not making you go. I’m making you get up.” 

Peter sniffled. He refused to move his hands and he heard Tony sigh. His stomach dropped. He’d disappointed his hero. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and he cringed. Of course. He was a weak, feminine fuck.

“Don’t be. And don’t worry about me seeing your crying face. I just want you out of there.” Tony’s voice softened as he offered Peter a hand. The teen grasped it in his own and let himself get pulled up.

Tony nudged him out of the closet and across his room. “Come on, get dressed. We’re going out.”

“Mr. Stark-”

“Nope,” Tony cut him off, rummaging through his drawers and throwing a balled up t-shirt at him. “You’re wallowing. I wanna take you somewhere else. Anywhere you want.” He crossed his arms and leaned on the dresser, facing away from Peter.

Peter scrambled to get dressed, figuring he best not argue. Once clothed, he cleared his throat. Tony turned back to him. His face was hard to read, but he didn’t look mad. If Peter didn’t know any better, he would say that he looked almost sympathetic.

“Where do you wanna go kid? Lunch? The beach? A walk?”  
Peter swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Tony hummed. “Do you even want to go?”

He shrugged. Tony eyed him. “Do you want to talk?”

“I’m not sure.” Peter shrugged. “I just… want to be okay.” He admitted, slumping onto his bed. Tony hummed and sat on the floor next to him. 

“Tell me about it.” He prompted.

Peter pressed his lips together, looking at Tony’s head next to him. They sat in silence for a few moments. Was he ready? At one had he wanted to confess to how he felt. He wanted to tell Tony about it. He knew he would understand, but at the same time he didn’t want to say it out loud. Tony rubbed his shin soothingly, and Peter felt his eyes well up with tears. Tony was here, offering his support. He was really there. The hero gathered his strength, pushing past the nervousness that consumed him.

“Sometimes I feel really guilty.” he started. “I feel bad. Sick, and warm. And sometimes I don’t want to be here.” He confessed, pressing his hands on the stomach.

Tony rested his head on his knee. “I feel like I don’t deserve to be an avenger. I feel like I’m too weak and flawed to earn any sort of hero status.”

Tony spoke up from where he was resting. “You’re depressed.” Peter made a noise of disagreement but didn’t interrupt. “You feel guilty for being treated good. You’re lethargic sometimes too. I’ve noticed. I’m worried about you.” Peter forced back more tears.

“I’m not depressed. I just… don’t feel okay right now.”

Tony hummed but didn’t push it. “What would make you feel more okay right now?”

Peter considered it for a moment before looking down at him. “Star Wars and a churro.”

Tony stood up and grinned, holding his hand out to Peter again. “Then let’s go nerd it the fuck up.” Peter grinned and gripped his hand.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, kid.”


End file.
